


sunny-d

by slenderqueer



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Alternate Timelines, Crossing Timelines, F/M, Sadstuck
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2012-12-31
Updated: 2013-01-12
Packaged: 2017-11-23 04:00:51
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,094
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/617856
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/slenderqueer/pseuds/slenderqueer
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>it's hard to say no deal when the self-destruct button is your favorite color.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. 1

**Author's Note:**

> hello! this is the first chapter of my first work here on AO3 :') the next chapter should be up soon, and it should be at least... a little... longer...  
> thank you for reading!!

You are awoken in the starless night.

It is black, unbroken as always, a licorice cumulus that wicks over your face like a breath made of pillow. It's something you've gotten used to; sweeps without sight and you can barely remember what your eyes once did. Your nose and fingers and tongue were more than qualified to take over once your so-called friend, so-called sister, set a flame of mocking cherry and watched it lick across your corneas while she bared her alligator teeth and grinned and grinned. _Even,_ she said, _now we're 8oth even,_ but it wasn't fair.

It was never fair.

You lie there in the dark a little while longer. It's nice, it's quiet, it's a blank slate for your electric senses that normally crackle with feeling. It's your favorite part of the day, when it's tar-pitch in your room, silent through the meteor, finally calm in your mind.

Black, save for the humming glow of warm Sunny-D that outlines your door, growing wider and louder and deeper each passing second. You, too serene to react, curl tighter in your duvet shroud, edged in turquoise for your grief. You honestly can't remember if your eyes are open or shut, and you suppose it doesn't matter, because the blip of cherry, cream, and salt caramel is going to come into your room anyway.

You're right. He does, and the tidal wave of warm and heavy sweetness would feel like a baptism, if you knew what that was. Dipping the bed beside you, he searches your blank eyes with his fresh-cut strawberries (you know, you can smell them), so you lend him—not give, you never give him anything—a nod; he creeps into your bed and holds you way too close. He smells like vanilla now, with burnt sugar freckles tossed waywardly over the his broad cheekbones and the bridge of his nose. It's like a galaxy, you reckon, but you don't tell him that.

You don't ask why he's here, either. You figure your sharp elbows do enough prodding.

He's gone in the morning.

>BE THE MARTYR

You're there again the next night, and this time you're hyperaware of your own feet. They didn't seem like your own when they walked you to the pile of knives you call “terezi,” but now they are the most obvious manifestation of your soul, drumming anxiety, pulling shackles, swelling anguish. You snap your head up at a sound down the corridor, probably nothing, likely everything, so you go in, not bothering to knock.

You have two fears right now, and they are as follows:

1\. Terezi will ask you questions, questions you cannot answer. You can just see that >:? in perfect detail on her lips, quirked in such an odd way that it would look incredibly out of place on everybody except herself.  
2\. Karkat will find the two of you. He and TZ aren't even together, you don't think, but they might as well be the way he acts around her.

You notice how Jack doesn't even make the list.

  
 

She's awake this time, you're sure of it. She's got her blank red eyes, bright, unblinking, bared right at you, and it's kind of unnerving because you know she can't see.  
You're not sure if she's been waiting for you.

>BE THE BLIND PSYCHOTIC CHICK.

You're not sure if you've been waiting for him either.

>BE THE MARTYR AGAIN.

You're the martyr again. Oh boy, golly whiz, how did you ever get so lucky. You're sitting on the edge of her bed, not daring to lie down, but you have one hand in her hair and the thumb is running over one of those weird fucking knives that jut out from her skull. Fortunately, you have never found yourself on the receiving end of a headbutt a la Pyrope, and you pity anybody who has suffered that kin of legislacewhatever wrath.

She's staring at you now, eyes wide and round and glossy, and the burnt-out orange circles where her pupils once were are locked on yours. You don't know how. Probably her sick anaconda-like sense of smell.  
“1 C4N T4ST3 TH3 CH3RRY,” she says inside your head. She stays silent out of it, just pouts, and you watch as she tightens her fingers in the blanket, a question forming in her eyes; for once, she keeps her mouth shut, and you answer the unbroken interrogation by lying down next to her, curling your fists around her just like last night. She doesn't move, just hums some frightful Alternian lullaby in your ear.

(You pretend it's a love song.)


	2. 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> can you even write more than like 2 words an hour ever no

>BE THE SEER BENEATH THE BLANKETS

You wish more than anything you would wake up to cream-and-sugar strawberries, but there is nothing you have ever been more certain of than the fact that it's not going to happen. It doesn't.  
You never see him during the day, and you don't bother asking for him when you run in on jade green and canary yellow in each others arms, or when you bump into Aradia on those rare occasions she makes an appearance. You don't even tell Karkat. He'd think you mad, anyway. Slap you over the head and tell you to GO FUCK AROUND SOMEWHERE ELSE, YOU PSYCHOTIC CANEBIRD, and you'd be back where you started. Even so, you can't get your mind off of it, of him, so you just mope about, spending most of your time in Can Town. You licked up most of the chalk drawings long ago, but you left Dave's corner untouched (even though it it tastes the best, you exercise what little self-restraint you summon; some of his cherry aura still lingers amongst the lopsided faces and pork chop mouths, so you tend to confine yourself there). He doesn't come that night. Or the next.

You recede further into yourself, even further, weary and so mentally paper-thin that you stand sideways and nobody can see you. And it suits you just fine.

You're getting thinner physically, too; food doesn't hold any taste anymore, and it's never as nice when it's re-alchemized. You're finding bones you didn't know you had, because you're too busy being bored to eat anything except for dinner, which Rose basically forcefeeds you (and everyone else). You share a kind of Seer bond that gives the two of you a front row seat to your self-destruction, which has proved to be about 36% blessing, 64% curse. 

He is in your bed the next night. You are not mirthful.  
“You are dead, Dave Strider, leave me alone.”


End file.
